


Espresso and Experiments

by TullyBlue



Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Adult Number Five | The Boy, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bakery and Coffee Shop, Ben tells bad jokes, Diego is a coffee snob, Everyone is hot for Five, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:22:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25508941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TullyBlue/pseuds/TullyBlue
Summary: Green eyes, pleading for death, meet her own. She smothers a smirk. She pushes the plate across the counter and waits for him to answer Ben. He shutters his expression. Vanya tries not to stare at his sharp cheekbones, or the perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip.“Why?” he asks, and they all know that he is asking why he is submitted to this, every time he walks through the door.
Relationships: Number Five | The Boy/Vanya Hargreeves
Comments: 22
Kudos: 216
Collections: The umbrella academy





	Espresso and Experiments

**Author's Note:**

> I've been stuck on my ongoing Fiveya fic, so I thought a coffee shop AU might be fun! Comments and kudos are appreciated. Thanks for reading!

She ties her hair up in a rush. She’s always getting up late, hitting snooze three or four times, letting the music of her alarm fade into her dreams. Her routine is muscle memory and tripping over things that Klaus leaves laying around. Today, it goes: toss off blankets and blindly turn off alarm, grab the stack of clothes on the dresser, hurdle herself from bedroom to shower while avoiding the roller skates in the hall, come alive under the water, dry off, dress and brush her teeth, grimace through sticking her contacts in, avoid roller skates again, rummage through the fridge for a Redbull, step carefully over Klaus’s saxophone, exit out the door while twirling her hair into an approximation of a bun. 

She drops the Redbull trying to lock the door behind her. 

It rolls off the sidewalk and she watches it go, sighing heavily. Vanya retrieves the Redbull and brushes it off, drives to work and spits away the piece of grass that sticks to her lip when she takes a drink. The radio never plays anything good this early. She’s not replaced the last aux cord Klaus broke. 

The roads are deserted, as always, so she speeds along in the dark of the morning, humming along to the 90’s alt rock station Diego likes so much. 

She parks her little Tacoma around the back, unlocks the door under the flickering porch light and the cute, miniature awning that matches the fancy storefront one. It is only a shadow of the sapphire regalia on the other side of the shop, with its scalloped edges and scripted lettering, but it keeps the rain away when she comes in with her arms full or half-asleep, like today. 

Vanya wakes up little by little. The smell of coffee beans, the hum of the espresso maker, the heat of the oven all lull her brain into consciousness more than the Redbull. She sits out baking sheets filled with cinnamon rolls, scones, and danishes. The muffin pans await Klaus for garnishing; the sandwich prep is Ben’s job, when he rolls in the latest, around ten; Diego will be here soon, start grinding the beans and waking up the rest of the machines. They all have their strengths. She warms up the ovens and ties her apron tight. 

It is an hour before she takes any sort of break. Diego arrives in his usual haze of cologne, music blaring from his earbuds as he trudges past her towards the storeroom. They share tired nods as he comes back with an armful of different coffee bean bags. Vanya takes the last sheet of danishes out of the oven, slides them onto a cooling rack, and stacks the baking sheet in the sink with the rest. 

Snagging a blueberry-lemon scone, she settles onto the stool tucked in the corner of the kitchen. Her feet rest on an old crate, head leaned back against the calendar, last marked on something like two months ago. Vanya munches on her scone and pulls open her notes app, using her free hand to tap out a list of what she would be ordering this week. Half of her fruit stock, sugar, milk, and butter, like always. She squints at her spice rack. Cinnamon and lemon zest, for sure. Vanya recalls the nearly empty sesame seed jar and writes that down, too. 

“Good morning, muffin!” 

“Klaus,” she says, tone smiling even if she doesn’t look up, “you’re early.” 

“Got some big new plans in the lab, today! I’ve been experimenting with my Monte Cristo turnovers, again, and I think I got them right!” 

Well, she’ll have to put off her orders until after the lunch rush, then. Klaus would be demolishing the supplies in the fridge, pantry, and spice rack. 

“Get these muffins topped and in the oven, and I don’t care what you do,” she deadpans. 

“God, I love my job.” 

* * *

“Large coffee, black, two apple cinnamon danishes, and a shot of espresso.” 

She has the pastries plated before he’s even at the counter. The chime of the bell gets her attention every time, and a regular gets her into gear faster than anything. He comes in three times a week, orders the same thing every time, and tips generously. If she allows herself to contemplate it, he is her favorite customer. 

He’s ridiculously hot, too, and therefore _everyone’s_ favorite customer. 

Diego speaks as little as possible when he comes in, but always reaches into the back of the shelf below the counter to pull out his own personal bag of beans, an expensive, rich Arabic blend called Koffee Kult. He makes the espresso with relish, offers to French press the handsome man a cup on good days. He hands the coffee off to Ben, working the counter, who always tries out his lame jokes on the customer. In the six months he’s been coming here, Ben has managed to earn maybe fix or six good laughs. 

“Why did the baker stop making doughnuts?” her idiot cousin asks. 

Green eyes, pleading for death, meet her own. She smothers a smirk. She pushes the plate across the counter and waits for him to answer Ben. He shutters his expression. Vanya tries not to stare at his sharp cheekbones, or the perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip. 

“Why?” he asks, and they all know that he is asking why he is submitted to this, every time he walks through the door. 

“He got tired of the hole thing!” 

He drops leaves a twenty on the counter, takes his breakfast to a table, sits down with an exhausted air and his back to the counter. 

“Do you have to attempt to drive away our best customer?” she sighs. 

Ben shrugs, looking very pleased with himself. He grabs a spray bottle and a rag. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She rolls her eyes as he ducks under the countertop door, leans over a table to clean it too thoroughly, ass pointed in the direction of the regular. 

At least Diego is already back to work, refilling another customer’s cup and asking if they need anything else. She can hear Klaus banging around in the kitchen. It will be worse if he catches wind their regular is in today. He’s a sucker for anyone tall, dark, _or_ handsome, shamelessly flirting with free samples he forces upon the unsuspecting customers. The last batch of Monte Cristo turnovers were not fit for human consumption. She couldn’t let him shove these down anyone’s throats until she knew they were edible. 

She sighs and swings the door to the kitchen open. Some pop song she’s never heard is blasting from the wall-mounted speaker. There is a coat of flour on the table and a selection of deli meats and cheeses on the counter, but that is to be expected. Klaus glances up from where he is pulverizing a bowl of raspberries and shaking his ass against the wooden chair he’s sitting in. 

“What’s up, sis?” 

“How’s the experimenting?” She cuts a corner off the block of cheddar and pops it into her mouth. The smokey flavor is nice, but she doubts it will pair well with a sweet dough. 

He smacks around his pants pockets until he finds his phone and turns down the music a bit. “I’ve decided on mild cheddar, aged swiss, both honey-roasted ham and turkey, and a raspberry sauce.” 

“More of a brunch than breakfast product, then?” 

“Mhmm, I’m thinking so. The result is gonna be a few more notches towards savory than I planned, but the first batch is in the oven and they look promising!” He sings the last few words, completely off tune to the song playing, and splashes a bit of the raspberry pulp out of the bowl in his enthusiasm. 

Vanya rolls up the sleeves of her flannel, slides on two oven mitts, checks out the promise Klaus is making her. The scent is mouthwatering and hits her as soon as she opens the oven door. A sheet of golden pastries is laid out before her, cheese bubbling from their soon-to-be flaky and soft edges. They look much better than the last attempt already. Her stomach rumbles and her brother giggles from the table, warning her away from the unfinished products of his labors. 

“Don’t burn them, Klaus. They look pretty good this time. It would be a shame if you used the fire extinguisher to garnish these delicious looking science experiments.” 

* * *

The lunch prep means she gets kicked out of the kitchen, because Ben has Things to Do, thank you very much. Vanya doesn’t mind so much. The lull between meals is nice. It gives her a time to organize the cash register’s haphazardly stuffed drawer. Ben couldn’t keep count to save his life; she is thankful for the digital calculator every day. She finishes that, serves a few people in business casual who walk right back out the door, scarves and coattails flapping. 

She has about half an hour until the dozen or so tables in the shop fill up. Diego will be refreshing the beans in few minutes, making the entire place smell like sad coffee grounds until Ben comes waltzing out the swinging door with platters of sandwiches stacked along his arms. With a glance towards the empty sidewalks outside the storefront, she gathers the things she’ll need to bus the tables. Her cousins can handle the coffee prep and stuffing of the display case, though she’ll have to get the pitchers of lemonade and tea from the fridge, since they never remember. 

Klaus should be done in the kitchen halfway through the lunch rush, right on time to give her a break from the register so she doesn’t snap at someone on the wrong side of the counter. The peace of the pre-lunch rush is nice. She knows what is coming,, though, and prepares herself. She’ll even have a few minutes to grab a snack, if she’s quick with the bussing. 

The morning has been slow. Thursdays aren’t too busy. Most students have stretched their money too far before pay day to be dropping in; office workers don’t venture outside their cubicles until their designated meals this late in the week, trying to finish up their assigned work before the Friday deadline. Mostly, she saw pairs of people stopping in for a chat or loners looking for a place to hide out for a while. 

Their regular seems to be the latter. He’s never come in with anyone else, sits at a table with only a stack of books and spiral notebook, scratching away at page after page and drinking his coffee in silence. He doesn’t seem to listen to the music playing in the lobby. Vanya’s never seen him tap his toes or heard him sing along to anything. The impromptu performances Klaus and Ben like to give draw his attention, though, and his applause. 

They do sound pretty good together, to be fair. 

She cleans up the few crumb-covered tables, tosses out left behind napkins, and scoots the chairs back under the tables. There is a couple of ladies reading together in the corner, their boots overlapping underneath their table, dual lipstick prints on both their coffee cups. A student by the window, table covered in textbooks and sticky notes. Their regular sits in a table near the counter, espresso cup empty, pencil moving furiously over a half-filled page. 

Vanya tosses the rag in the bucket under the utility sink and washes her hands. She dries them on her apron, sighs at the state of her nails, makes a mental note to buy a better lotion, though she’ll probably forget. The boys are making a racket in the kitchen. She subtly turns up the classical playing on the lobby speakers, glad the metal in the kitchen isn’t blaring like usual. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the regular send a smile her way. She busies herself with cleaning out the display case. That dimple in his cheek is too distracting, honestly. 

Gleaming white and stainless steel, with soft lights and both a warm and a cool side, her display case is one of her best purchases. All of her pastries and Klaus’s creations look delicious and stay fresh. It demands attention as soon as a customer walks through the door. One half of the case is nearly barren, waiting on the variety of sandwiches Ben will stuff it with, while the other still has a nice selection of pie and cake slices. She checks the cold side; everything is still fresh and fine, so she begins to rearrange the leftover breakfast pastries and pre-lunch cookies. 

The two women slide matching bookmarks into their novels, help each other with their purses and coats, toss their cups into the trash with a wave towards the counter on their way out the door. Vanya smiles and waves, sighs in relief at the nearly spotless table they leave behind. 

She eyes the leftovers in the display and grabs a napkin, takes out two danishes and two scones. Vanya puts one of each on two different plates. There is an apple cinnamon danish and a dark chocolate chunk scone, and there is a cream cheese danish and a cherry almond scone. 

Vanya sets the second plate down atop a closed physics book beside the student. She looks up with wide, chestnut eyes, and smiles brightly. There is a pen sticking out of her bun and dark circles under her eyes. She pushes the plate a little insistently towards the studious girl. 

“Don’t work too hard,” Vanya says. 

“Thanks so much,” she gushes. “You either.” 

Her smile is answer enough and she walks towards the other occupied table, glad Klaus doesn’t leave things laying around the floor here like he does at home. He doesn’t look up until Vanya is standing nearly at his elbow, placing the offering on the table with the same smile stuck to her face. She is too afraid to try adjusting it. 

His smile makes her heart pound. That dimple is back and she tries valiantly not to stare at it, or the flash of pearly teeth exposed. 

“Your favorite,” she says, and wonders when she decided that would come out of her mouth. 

It seems to work. “Yes, they are.” He looks her dead in the eye and does not adjust his smile, either. 

“And a scone. Dark chocolate.” 

He wrinkles his nose comically at this, and her smile changes into something a little sillier. The regular waves his hand at the empty seat next to him. “Why don’t you have that one?” 

She glances at the clock over the espresso machine and then the empty shop. Ben should be done by now; she hasn’t had anything since her first scone. Vanya could take a break. “Give me just a second?” 

He nods, eyes curious and so green she is hit with the urge to get out of the city for a while, see the trees and the fields again. 

Vanya slips into the kitchen and breaks up a raspberry sauce versus mustard fight. She smacks Klaus and Diego, kicks Ben and his platters out of the door, and tells them they’re responsible for the next twenty minutes. Her apron has a splash of red on it by the time she leaves, and she has to threaten her brother’s life to get out the door without a mustard mustache, but it works. 

Their stupidly handsome regular is smirking like he’s stupidly amused when she exits the kitchen, whipping her apron off and pouring two cups of coffee for herself and the man. It isn’t Koffee Kult, but it will do. She grimaces to herself when the glass storefront reflects her messy hair and wrinkled shirt. He smiles brightly when she sits down next to him, pushes the plate her way. Her eyes linger on his hands, long, slender fingers and neat, rounded nails. There is graphite smudged along the side of one of them. 

She looks up at him and grins, notices a coffee stain on his collar, and picks up the scone. It is just as good as everything she and her boys make – rich and sweet, with the smallest bitter hint from the chocolate. The man next to her is on the last few bites of his own pastry. 

“I’m Vanya.” 

“Call me Five.” 

Skeptical, her eyebrows raise and she waits for him to explain that one. 

“It’s better than the real thing,” he says, promise lacing his tone. 

Part of her wants to press, but he passes her a napkin and his fingers brush hers for several too long moments. That dimple is back. He’s looking at her like Klaus does when he hands her something that’s going to send her taste buds into a frenzy, make every single store-bought baked good taste like sawdust. She reaches for her coffee, throat too dry. 

“Sounds like a story for another time.” 

He points at the napkin, where his phone number and numerical nickname are scrawled in nearly incomprehensible graphite. “Why don’t you decide on a time and get back to me?” 


End file.
